


Sickness and Health

by tsv



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6054451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsv/pseuds/tsv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doc catches a bad flu. As usual, Brock is the one who gets stuck taking care of him, and finds himself being entirely too accommodating.</p><p>Just a little slice of fluff, done for the new VB kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sickness and Health

**Author's Note:**

> This is more "implied feelings" than "established relationship", I wasn't really sure how to handle the tags since it's definitely meant to be read as shippy regardless.
> 
> Prompt was "Sick!fic with Rusy feeling really out of it and Brock has to take care of him. Or Hank and Dean get the flu but Dean still has to get his studies done for the University so Hank has to help him." Check out the new kink meme [here](http://ladyofdecember.livejournal.com/3205.html) and submit (or fill) some prompts if you feel like it!

"I cannot _fucking_ believe I caught some _ridiculous flu_ not even _two weeks_ after we got here."

Brock shot a wry smirk over at the grumbling superscientist, currently staring blearily at the day's newspaper as if he were trying to decipher ancient runes, then looked back down to the pot of chicken noodle soup burbling on the stove in front of him. "Maybe if you hadn't shook hands with so many beneficiaries when you were signing checks. Lot of kids' organizations, Doc?"

Rusty let out a low, long-suffering groan and leaned forward, letting his forehead gently 'thunk' against the kitchen table, crumpling the newspaper a bit. H.E.L.P.eR. chirped at him worriedly, wheeling around the room.

Well, at least he was still relatively lucid, his fever at a minimum. Doc got pretty loopy in the middle of a bad enough fever.

More than anything, Brock was glad the boys hadn't caught it, yet — he was used to them immediately acquiring whatever new ailment Doc had gotten from whatever source, thanks to their close physical proximity and the sheltered nature of their upbringing. Which inevitably led to Brock struggling not to get sick AND taking care of three very ill, whiny Venture children at the same time.

All part of the job, and nothing he couldn't handle, but it got tiring after a while. Suddenly, he found himself relieved for the boys' newfound freedom and willingness to leave the nest. Rusty on his own was far more manageable.

H.E.L.P.eR. procured him a bowl with a series of soft beeps and boops, which Brock then gingerly removed from the robot's claws, ladling it full of hot soup. Despite the fact that he'd done this before on many occasions, he still couldn't help but feel as if this was work more suited to a maid — or a housewife — than a bodyguard, especially a highly trained O.S.I. operative.

A maid was something they could actually afford to hire now, but Rusty, thrifty as ever in all the wrong places, would never spend that kind of cash on something he could get Brock to do for free. And he wasn't exactly about to turn Doc down when he was in need. He never could.

Brock sighed deeply before blowing on the soup to cool it down, and wondered if this constituted "being whipped". The brief image of wearing a frilly apron crossed his mind, which would've made an amusing joke, except for the fact that he'd literally _had one of those_ before it'd burned down along with the rest of the old compound.

Oh, yeah. He was definitely at least a little whipped, and not as bothered by that as he should've been. Brock only hoped his old O.S.I. buddies never got a chance to see him like this.

The plate — and bowl atop it — clinked neatly on the table in front of the sulking scientist, along with a broad spoon set to the side. His head barely lifted in response, glasses uneven.

"Eat your soup, Doc."

Rusty let out what sounded like an attempt at a growl in response, but came off more like a raspy whine.

Brock couldn't help but smile a bit.

—

God, everything ached. Rusty's vision felt fuzzy at the edges, and his clothes felt entirely too hot. He'd barely managed to shovel down half the bowl his bodyguard had so kindly served him before his stomach abruptly lurched, threatening to punish him for any further transgressions.

Brock had helped him uneasily wobble over to the couch to watch some TV (and then promptly washed his hands for a couple minutes in a row, he noticed — maybe that was the real secret to how his faithful bodyguard managed to so rarely catch the hells in their home). But as his vision wavered, so did his focus, not that old re-runs of the Golden Girls were particularly captivating to him to begin with.

Rusty pushed up his glasses with a few fingers, rubbing at his tired eyes with the back of the same hand. A dull, distracting pain seemed to weave into every inch of his skin. It was hard to believe this wasn't even the worst of it.

This was no state to be running a company in. Thank God he had a few people to help with that. Billy and White had effectively quarantined themselves as soon as he texted them, but reportedly the science was "going well", whatever the hell _that_ meant.

Increasingly, laying in bed seemed to be the most appealing option available to him. Hell, maybe the _only_ option available to him.

Yet even the thought of walking to his bedroom right now felt agonizing. Luckily, he had options.

"Brock," he whined, voice sounding far less dignified than he'd hoped.

"Yeah, Doc?"

An immediate reply — Brock could pretend to be casual all he wanted, but he was as attentive as a mother doting over her children when it came to things like this. Rusty smiled faintly at the knowledge that he could, as always, rely on him.

"Carry me."

A less immediate reply, then.

"Excuse me?"

Rusty was both too sick and too tired to worry about the brazenness of such a request. He sprawled out across the sofa, deciding to throw out dignity entirely and instead try to look as pathetic as possible.

"I'm sore and I don't want to walk. Carry me to bed," he announced, dramatically laying a hand against his own forehead.

Their gazes met. Brock squinted at him in disbelief. In response, Rusty pouted as hard as he could. Really laid it on.

 _Squint._ He could barely see the light reflecting off Brock's thin blue eyes, now. He was glowering.

Rusty's lower lip trembled. He tried to widen his eyes, much like a kitten.

"You are so full of shit."

Oh.

But then came a deep sigh, similar to one he'd heard rattle out of the larger man earlier. Brock put down the dishes he was holding and walked over, fitting two arms under him to lift him up as easily as if he were a pillow, cradling him against his chest.

Usually, either Brock would acquiesce to his ridiculous demands, whatever they were, or call him on his bullshit and tell him to do it himself. On rare occasions, he got both.

Rusty awkwardly wrapped his arms around his bodyguard's neck, resting his head against his broad shoulder, feeling a bit disarmed. Some part of him enjoyed the closeness, sure. But another part was busy wondering if this was a fever dream. It felt too surreal not to be.

—

Doc was absolutely going to kill him at this rate.

First he'd made Doc soup — reasonable enough a request. But then, he'd insisted on Brock carrying him around, because he was _too sore to walk_ , supposedly. Brock had, more tentatively, helped him with that one.

And then he asked to be tucked into bed, like a little kid.

After that, he even asked for a _bedtime story_.

And Brock, of course, had turned him down. Anyone would, obviously. A ridiculous request, especially coming from a grown man known for complaining his ass off at minor conveniences.

Brock Samson, prized government secret agent and trained killer, absolutely did not end up sitting next to Doc's bed reading Moby Dick while the scientist drifted in and out of consciousness.

God damn it.

"Brock? What're you doing?"

A few chapters in, he was interrupted by a familiar male voice coming from the doorway, and Brock lifted his head, pausing mid-sentence to bookmark the page. Dean was leaning on the doorframe with a curious look, Hank a few steps behind him.

A brief glance at their father, tucked neatly under the covers, confirmed that he'd finally bored the smaller man into falling asleep. He held a finger to his lips and stood up, shushing the boys so that his hard work didn't go to waste.

Outside in the kitchen, he calmly explained the situation.

"Your dad's definitely sick, like we thought. I was just helping him get to sleep."

"What, by reading him a story like a little kid?" Hank jeered, digging around in the cabinet for something to snack on. It occurred to Brock that he was running late on cooking dinner, having gotten caught up in Doc's mess, and that he was going to be cooking a lot of dinners until he got better.

"Your dad acts a lot like a little kid sometimes," Brock said honestly, leaning back against the counter with his arms folded.

"That doesn't mean you have to go along with it," Dean quipped, a hint of bitterness in his voice. He admittedly felt a bit surprised to hear that, coming from him. Dean, for the longest time, had barely spoken a word against his father.

Brock felt a little proud, actually. He'd come a long way. "That's true. But sometimes, you just have to humor him. Him being sick is one of those times."

A soft silence, as if neither of the boys could think of anything to counter that with.

"Now wash your hands. Both of you. _Thoroughly._ And we're taking you both to the clinic tomorrow for flu shots."

Maybe he could teach the boys how to cook, while he was at it.

—

_Too hot._

Rusty pushed inefficiently at the sheets covering him, and then promptly tugged them right back up, shivering at the cool air that touched his shoulders. The aches were getting worse. Everything was getting worse. His stomach tossed and gurgled unpromisingly, making him curl inward, as if the position would defend himself from his own body.

Gurgle. Yeah — he was definitely going to have to throw up at some point, soon. Definitely not on Rusty's list of favorite things to do. Not that he hadn't gotten used to doing it as a child, often out of sheer anxiety from his kidnapping of the week.

A small, helpless whine escaped him. This _sucked_.

Suddenly, he heard distant footsteps. Instinctively, he froze, before remembering that it was _normal_ to hear errant footfalls now and then, especially with the boys getting older. He had a bodyguard. A very, very good bodyguard. He was fine.

Not long afterwards, his door creaked open, letting a little light in. It took him a moment, especially without his glasses, to make out the shape. Brock, judging by the height.

"Brock?" He croaked, surprising himself at how hoarse he sounded. He felt a startling amount of comfort at the man's presence. Brock was always, always inevitably there, wasn't he?

"Hey," Brock replied softly. He was holding something, Rusty could tell that much — not that he had any inkling of what it was, not until a glass of cold water suddenly met his lips. "Drink this."

"Mm," Rusty grunted, placing his smaller fingers over Brock's large hand, shakily grasping the cup and tipping it forward, taking increasingly eager swallows. It felt good on his throat, mildly eased the waves of heat radiating off his skin, even if his stomach didn't much care for the abrupt splash of icy liquid.

"Thanks," he mumbled as Brock drew the glass away, immediately laying back down as if commanded to by his body. He blearily squinted up at the large silhouette beside him, and felt overwhelmed by gratitude.

So much gratitude, in fact, that Rusty was also hit with an abrupt sense of urgency, anxiety prickling the fine hairs on the back of his neck, what was left of them.

For some reason he felt as if he had to describe to Brock, in that exact moment, just how much he meant to him, or else maybe he'd lose him again. His head swam miserably. He was so bad at that. He didn't want to lose him, not when he was _so important_.

Rusty reached out his hand weakly as if to touch him, but it didn't even make it halfway before flopping uselessly on the mattress. "Brock... You're always... you always... you're... I mean..."

He squinted with frustration. Why were words suddenly so damn hard? Stringing together sentences felt like wading through quicksand. He couldn't make out Brock's expression whatsoever, either, to tell if he was getting his point across.

"You're... help. You help. You always... help. And that's good."

That did not feel satisfactory, but he was having trouble thinking of any better way to articulate his appreciation. He was having trouble thinking of anything, actually, as the fatigue rapidly became overwhelming. He felt his eyelids droop, his voice slur. Everything continued to ache.

"I missed you," he mumbled faintly into his pillow, "so much."

Rusty felt the world once again spin into darkness.

—

Brock stared bemusedly at Doc's sleeping face. Expressions of how much the man cared like that — real, genuine, deliberate ones, said with no fear for personal vulnerability — were extremely rare. He shouldn't have been surprised that it took being sick for him to actually let his guard down.

The backs of his knuckles rested gently against Doc's forehead, feeling his temperature. Hot, but not dangerously so. He'd have to come back a few times before he laid down for the night, make sure it didn't creep too high.

Actually, he was feeling a little warm, himself. Not in the face, though. Just a faint, fuzzy feeling in his chest.

And If Brock Samson, the toughest attack dog in the O.S.I.'s arsenal, kissed his employer's forehead on the way out like a huge fucking sap, that was nobody's business but his own.


End file.
